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Portrait of a shepherd

Here she is, the song must be pastor!

To the degree of each blue, 
dark figures.
The call of the shepherds is gallant
of shortcuts
coming by the high flows of the grass.

Gift of a thousand flowers and all the strands,
chamois shepherds of the right voice.
Incisions in the souk,
with traces of salt with a stroke
of xerigot and stalzí
night in bonfire circles.

With so much Sun to tell us
and so early to compose ourselves.

They have bread in their hands
of swirling white trousers,
up with the yeast on their faces.
And the redemption of the song unscathed
to make up Grandia.

The herd is lighted
the throne dances in thunder,
drunk with beasts of burden.
Lightning left in the pastures,
moonlight in the ponds,
toes between hooves.


            Arnau Orobitg, 2016

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